


Overprotective, Overreactive, and Overwhelming: A Summary of Karkat Vantas

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time you go back into the dream bubbles, you can’t help but look for him. </p><p>You’re not sure why you hate yourself so much. Maybe you’ve got a secret masochistic streak, maybe your subconscious just likes getting punished, you have no clue, but you can’t help it. You always seek him out, and despite his incessant, obnoxious rambling, the sight of him in his goddamn cherry red sweater is something of a comfort to you. </p><p>But now you can’t find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overprotective, Overreactive, and Overwhelming: A Summary of Karkat Vantas

**Author's Note:**

> this is shit I'm sorry it was so much better but the fancy draft with the nice edits got deleteeeeed

Every time you go back into the dream bubbles, you can’t help but look for him. 

 

 

You’re not sure why you hate yourself so much. Maybe you’ve got a secret masochistic streak, maybe your subconscious just likes getting punished, you have no clue, but you can’t help it. You always seek him out, and despite his incessant, obnoxious rambling, the sight of him in his goddamn cherry red sweater is something of a comfort to you. 

 

But now you can’t find him. 

 

You’ve looked high and low, all over his usual spots, and you’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him, not a single thread of that aberrant color. It’s not like him to hide away, especially not from you, so you have no clue why he’s so difficult to locate, but you’re worried and being worried makes you angry, and you can’t really stop the way your claws dig into your flesh or your teeth clench over your lip. 

 

When you finally do find him, you’ve worked yourself up into a frothing rage. Granted, 'frothing rage' is a bit of a default for you, but you usually know better than to approach him anything other than calm, or, at the very least, indifferent. But now you are worried, and angry, and, though you won't admit it, hideously relieved to see him, and you can't help yourself.

 

“Where the fuck have you been?” you snarl, but your stomach drops to the floor when you grab his shoulder and wrench him around and you’re met with blood and bruises. 

 

Kankri looks like he’s been beat to hell and back, mottled, unpleasant contusions darkening the skin around most of his right eye and cheek, split lip cracking a bit when he opens his mouth. 

 

“Oh, Karkat. I wasn’t expecting you.”

 

That’s it. That’s all he says, and he looks up at you with blank white eyes and he looks so tiny and breakable, with your huge hand almost covering his shoulder, face smashed, and you kind of want to hit something. But not him. Never him. You've never felt the urge to hit him, not even in the middle of his longest rant; shut him up, maybe, pull the collar of his sweater up over his face, maybe, punch _yourself_ in the face, maybe, but you have never wanted to hit him. Not like someone else apparently has.  

 

“What the fuck happened to your face?” you ask, voice low, free hand hovering over the prominent injuries. There’s patches of discoloration under his jaw, too, and you’re sure that if you were to pull the collar of his sweater down, you’d find more around his neck. 

 

He reaches up, startled, like he’s just been reminded his face looks like he’s been hit with a goddamn truck, and shrugs awkwardly. 

 

“Nothing, it’s fine.”

 

Once again, that’s all he says. It’s the shortest thing you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth, and you bite your lip hard to keep yourself from hissing. 

 

“This is not fine,” you say instead, tone carefully modulated, and when you grab his wrist to drag him away from the small copse of trees you located him in, he flinches, “ _You_ are not fine. Do ghosts get concussions?”

 

He shrugs again, and something isn’t right, he’s never been so quiet; you don’t like it at all. If anyone had ever told you that Kankri shutting up would be anything less than a godsend, you probably would have punched them, but... it’s not right, there’s something  _wrong_  and it makes you feel ill. 

 

His hive isn’t far away, but the silence of the journey really gets to you. He doesn’t even protest when you kick open his door, or when you enter his home without permission, two things you know would have instigated unending drivel at any other time. Now, though, he just twists his mouth in a frown and gives you the most chastising glance you’ve ever gotten, but no verbal accompaniment follows it, only a small trickle of blood from the split on his lip.

 

You drag him into the bathroom ad push him onto the closed lid of the load gaper, much more carefully than you usually would have. You don’t know how far the damage extends, and as much as he annoys the  _fuck_  out of you, you don’t want to hurt him. Badly. Most of the time. 

 

“Who did this?”

 

He looks down. You grab his face, careful of his injuries, and tilt his head up, force his eyes to meet yours, but he doesn’t say anything, just bites his already abused lip and stares in a way that makes it obvious he’s looking right through you. You repeat the question. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and his voice is soft, hoarse, like it pains him to speak and maybe it does but you _need to know_ who decided it was okay to beat the shit out of  _your_  dancestor. 

 

“I’m not fucking  _worrying_  about it. I am so fucking far beyond  _worrying_  about it that me and worry are currently on different sides of the fucking universe. I am vexed, distressed, scared, furious, concerned, but not worried. Worry is not a strong enough word for what I am feeling at the moment.”

 

He cringes a bit, trying to duck his head, but you have a hand cupping his less damaged cheek and you refuse to let him look away. 

 

“Kankri, tell me who decided to fucking trounce you before I find out myself.”

 

Your voice is hard but you’re careful to keep your touch soft. 

 

“No one, Karkat. I fell.”

 

“You are so full of shit. You are so full of shit that you are spewing it out of every orifice. Everything that comes out of your mouth is coated in a fine layer of shit, and you are not getting a single piece of it past my astounding, all encompassing acumen. Now _tell me_.”

 

 

He shakes his head and looks like he immediately regrets it and you know that, even if ghosts don’t get concussions, they can certainly get headaches. 

 

“It was a simple misunderstanding-“

 

“A simple _misunderstanding_? Kankri, a simple misunderstanding does not end with severe facial injury. A simple misunderstanding does not end with extensive bruising. A simple misunderstanding would be someone grabbing the wrong jacket or robbing the wrong goddamn bank, not whatever the _fuck_ happened to you.”

 

You get a washcloth, wet it, and start daubing the blood around his mouth, keeping your grip on his chin light enough not to put pressure on anything that might be broken. His eye goes less smoothly, mainly because you think his cheekbone is fractured and he has a hard time not flinching away from you, but you manage to get him cleaned up and his face looks a bit less like ground grubloaf now, so you consider it a victory. 

 

he’s unnervingly silent the whole time, only letting out a few cursory gasps or small noises of pain, and you want to shake him, grab him by the shoulders and force him to look at you and tell you who did this to him, because you are angry and want to hit something and for once that something isn’t him. No, him you want to coddle, protect, lock him up and never let him out of his hive so no one ever has a chance to hurt him and he can ramble and rave to his heart’s content without worrying about being hit, because you know that has to be why whoever did this. 

 

You know it’s irrational. You can’t just keep him from ever leaving, you can’t stay here all night and day to keep him here, you can’t stop him from talking or being around other people, but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to. You’re also aware he already has a moirail, so these bitter pale feelings of yours are dumb, and need to go jump off a cliff. 

 

“Sweater off,” you mutter, tugging at the red material, and he balks, shaking his head and clutching the stupid thing to his chest like it’s a lifeline. 

 

“You can put it back on in like five minutes, I just want to make sure you haven’t broken anything. Off, before I yank it off myself and you know I’ll do it.”

 

He shivers, but nods and slowly peels the cloth from his body, clinging to it once he’s finally removed it. 

 

His pants are folded around his waist, resting where normal pants would sit, and you think it’s because they must have been too painful to let rest where they usually lie. He’s got livid bruising running up and down his ribs, and your earlier assumption was right- the marks do extend down his neck, perfect little finger shapes pressed into his flesh like brands, but nothing appears to be broken. He’s got some scratches, but no gaping wounds, and all his ribs seem in the right order, for as much as they are too prominent. 

 

Great. Now you want to lock him up and feed him till he looks like he could stand straight against a breeze and not get blown away. 

 

You bite your lip and run your hands over the injuries, checking for fractures or cracks, but you can’t feel anything stand out, so you don’t think he’d damaged beyond bruised flesh, thank god. He flinches when you touch something particularly painful, but he doesn’t make noise, or bother lecturing you on how triggering this is. 

 

Something’s wrong. He’s never this quiet. Your fingers are shaking with rage, because someone hurt him, silenced him, he’s injured and hurt and much too quiet and you want to find out who did this to him and tear their limbs from their body with your bare hands, because he is _your dancestor_ and no one is allowed to touch him but you, _no one_. 

 

“Nothing’s broken,” you say, voice hoarse, but he doesn’t move to put his sweater back on. He clutches it close like a security blanket, twisting it and stressing the fabric enough that you’re surprised he hasn’t worn holes in the stupid thing, but then he folds it up and places it carefully on the counter, folding his hands neatly in his lap and refusing to look at the thing. 

 

“Thank you Karkat,” and that’s all he says. He picks at the flesh of his hands with blunted nails, fidgeting quietly, shivering in the cold air, but he doesn’t say another word and he doesn’t reach for the sweater, despite his obvious chill. 

 

“Kankri… “

 

When you touch his face, his shoulders twitch, but he doesn’t flinch away, even when you tilt his head up to look him in the eyes. The blank slates of his irises bore into yours, and you sigh, running your thumb over his less bruised cheekbone.

 

“Please tell me what happened,” you say, carefully controlling your tone and your language, making special effort not to say anything he might deem offensive. You do not want to cause him to retreat further into his shell, you want him to tell you what the fuck is going on before you punch a fucking wall. 

 

“I… “

 

He bites his lip and looks away, but you turn him back, careful to keep your touch gentle, because the last thing you want to do is hurt him when he’s already been beaten to a fucking pulp. 

 

“Kankri,” you plead, dropping all pretenses of being anything less than absolutely fucking horrified by the condition he’s in, dropping everything but care and concern and all the feelings you’ve been trying to mask behind anger because they hurt so much more than rage does, “Kankri,  _please_.”

 

You can almost see the way he cracks, the way his resolve to keep quiet crumbles into dust and the way he folds inwards, shoulders hunching, leaning into your touch like he needs it to live. 

 

“I… It was my fault, really,” he spits out, hurriedly, like he’ll be silenced if he doesn’t speak fast enough, “I was- I shouldn’t have- They did ask me repeatedly to silence myself but it has been brought to my attention that I am not the best listener-“

 

“Of course,” you mutter, grinding your teeth, “Of course they did it because your fucking lectures. Who was it? Who decided it was okay to hurt you?”

 

“… It was… I’m sure they didn’t mean to do as much damage as they did, they had no way of knowing that I bruise easier than most, you understand, they couldn’t possibly have-“

 

“Kankri.”

 

You tap his lips with a finger, and he goes quiet instantly, eyes wide. 

 

“Don’t try to defend them. I find it really fucking  _triggering_  that you’re protecting these assholes, alright? You shouldn’t feel the need to defend them because what they did was astoundingly fucking stupid. They hurt you because, what, they didn’t like what you were saying? Because you were saying too much? That’s no fucking reason to beat your face in, Kankri.”

 

He looks down, but answers, voice soft and hesitant, “Meenah hit me the first time, just to get me to, ah, _shut the glubbin’ hell up_ , in her words. Then Kurloz, because I continued speaking after that. He… he didn’t really cease after one hit, though.”

 

“And no one tried to fucking stop him?”

 

“I think they were all just glad I wasn’t speaking.”

 

You gnash your teeth together to keep from spitting out some things you desperately want to say, because you know it’ll only upset him. He does not deserve your anger. Instead, you suck in a deep breath, and let it out through your nose. You know the story isn’t over, you know you have a bit more to pry out of him, because why the fuck else would he refuse to wear his stupid, ugly sweater? 

 

So you breath deep, and focus on keeping externally calm, if not internally so. 

 

“And?” you say, tone even, and he looks at you guiltily, like a barkbeast who’s chewed up the furniture. 

 

“And? They hit me, and then I left.”

 

“That’s not all and you know it, Kankri!” you snap, biting your tongue to keep from spitting out anything else. You feel sick to your stomach again, because when you’d raised your voice, he’d flinched away from you, hands raising to shield his face involuntarily. You didn’t mean to scare him, you’re just so… you’re mad, and scared, and upset because someone hurt him, beat him down because of his stupid lecturing. Hit him because he was talking. And it makes you so fucking angry because…

 

Well, because you failed. You failed to protect him, you are the Knight, you are the guardian, your job is to protect and you failed and now he’s hurt, and he felt the need to hide who did it. To protect his abusers, for whatever goddamn stupid reason, and it’s kind of killing you a bit because _you failed to protect your dancestor_. 

 

You spread your own hands, breathing in deep. 

 

“I didn’t mean to shout,” you say, placing your hands carefully on his knees, keeping your touch light, “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the situation, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

 

He nods, but doesn’t delve into the lecture you would typically expect. He does lean in a bit, though, wrapping his arms around his middle and tilting towards your warmth, and, slowly, giving him time to refute you if he objects, you reach up and pull him close, until you’re holding him against your chest. 

 

his heart is beating a mile a minute, but he doesn’t flinch away from you; he curls even closer, until he’s pressed against you as much as he can, in the rather awkward position you've wedged yourselves, hiding his face in the crook of your neck and taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm himself. 

 

“P-porrim,” he finally chokes out, voice muffled, “I went- I went to Porrim, after, but- I must have caught her at a bad time, we had been arguing, I said some unkind things last I saw her, she was upset and then I- I told her what had happened and said some things I probably shouldn’t have and she-“

 

He shivers all over, shaking so hard you’re worried he’s going to fall to pieces. 

 

“She yelled at me,” he says, whispering, like he doesn’t want to hear the words coming out of his own mouth, “She yelled at me and told me that maybe getting a slap to the face would be good for me, that maybe I’d start thinking about the things that came out of my mouth, because I have a tendency to instigate and it’s about time I finally got what I deserved-“

 

You cut him off there with a low, rumbling growl, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to get yourself under control but how dare she, how dare she-

 

“She didn’t know the extent of the damage,” Kankri says hurriedly, unburrowing from the crook of your neck to look at you, eyes wide, pleading, “She didn’t- I didn’t tell her, I just said that Meenah had slapped me, she- she never saw me, her hive door stayed shut-“

 

“That is no fucking excuse,” you say, the taste of blood filling your mouth as you accidentally bite a hole in your tongue, “That is no excuse but we’ll talk about that later. I want you to listen very, very closely, okay, Kankri?”

 

He nods, and you pull him away from you just enough to look into his eyes, cradling his cheek in one hand. 

 

“Ok, first thing, _you did not deserve this_. You did nothing to deserve this. You should not have been hit, you should not have been hurt, and if anybody tries to tell you otherwise, they are fucking wrong, do you understand?”

 

“But-“

 

“No. Exceptions. Do you understand.”

 

He opens his mouth, but shuts it again without saying anything, choosing instead to nod again. He would have looked away, had you allowed him to, but the hand on his cheek is there for more than just his comfort. 

 

“Second, if anyone ever tries to hurt you again, I want you to come an tell me, and I will take care of it. No one has the right to hit you, no one is allowed to hurt you except me because you are _my_ dancestor and I will _personally_ beat the shit out of anyone who objects. Do you understand.”

 

He nods again, and this time when he goes to hide his face you let him. He clings to your chest and shivers and shakes and you wrap your arms around him and try to keep him warm because he’s so small he can’t help but pull at your heartstrings, and you always pity him just as much as you sometimes hate him. 

 

“Kankri Vantas, you are an absolute wreck, but you are _my_ absolute wreck and I swear to any deity listening that I will do my best to prevent this from happening again,” you sigh, reaching up to pet his hair, paying special attention to the skin around his horn beds, and he melts under your hands, purring quietly. 

 

“Now, I’m going to put you to coon, and then I’m going to go have a chat with a few people about things they are definitely never allowed to do again,” you continue, lifting him with ease and carrying him out of the ablution block. He makes noises of protest, but he’s swiftly quieted when you settle him into the warm slime of the recuperacoon, taking extra care to brush sopor over the bruising on his face. 

 

He chirrs at you when you stand, reaching out, eyebrows furrowed, but you can tell he’s about ready to drop so you just tuck him back into the slime and croon, daubing a bit more on the contusions around his eye. The sopor should help him heal a bit faster, and would act as a sedative, keeping him from feeling too much pain while he sleeps.

 

“Shoosh,” you murmur, petting back his hair, “Shoosh and sleep, you’re tired, you’re injured, sleeping will help heal you.”

 

“Don’t… but…” he slurs, eyes already closed, “Don’t be too… too mad? At them?”

 

“Shhh, shhh,” is all you allow to come out of your mouth, and you keep shooshing and crooning till he falls asleep, soft little chirrs falling from his lips with every breath. He looks even more pathetic like this, swamped by the size of the coon, the dark bags under his eyes made more prominent by the green glowing slime, and you sink you teeth into your lip and brush a lock of his hair away from his face before turning on your heel and stalking out of the room, seething silently, so as not to wake him up. 

 

You have some people to see. 

 

 


End file.
